Could I earn a place in Heaven –by what meansand what might it do to me?What if I found that once there, thennot only had I ceased to bebut too that Heaven isn’t as it seems?

That is to say, what good is to be hadcut off from everything –what good to learn when nothingresembles a chance to ever meet the bad?

For all the flaws of our life on EarthI must say –I’d choose this life, right here and nowover a place in Heaven any day.For all the dreary, and for what it’s worth,no other place provides a chance for growth.

I don’t claim to have all the answers
these are just my thoughts;
disorganized and fragmented
as they come.
A relentless stream that varies
from gibberish to genius.
But however smart they sound
at least at times
I do not claim to know the “truth” about anything
because “truth” is such a limiting concept.
It isn’t constant –
it changes based on point of view,
it changes over time,
it changes depending on who tells the story
and how they tell it.
It’s simply too confusing for me
to deal with.
So I don’t.
What do I do then?
I ask a ridiculous amount of questions
and let them speak for themselves.

How about writing about something I know?
Something I care about?
How about not caring in advance whether the reader understands
or wants to understand
or whether or not it even matters?
How about settling for the idea
that everything matters
and that if I write about something that is
meaningful to me, heartfelt and genuine
that will shine through
and make every word count all the more?
What if I’m wrong…?
But what if I’m right!

How about writing about Lolland.
That’s the island I come from.
Why have I never written about it before?
Well, I have,
but never mentioned the name.
What if giving it its proper name
alienates certain readers
or makes the text less universal
(as if a text ever can be universal)
or makes it more difficult to relate to
or something like that?
But what if it doesn’t!

What if you try to write something universal
and end up with something insipid and vague
that nobody could possibly care for.
Why not write something personal?
Why not write of my home?
As if other people don’t have a home
and wouldn’t understand what it feels like
to long back to it.

Why even pretend that there is a difference
between the personal and the universal –

I want to write about Lolland.
It is an island in the south of Denmark.
It has 60.000 inhabitants.
It is very flat and fertile.

It is my home.

I don’t live there.
I haven’t lived there for ten years now.
It changes nothing.

My biggest wish for the future
is that everybody would stop
pretending that they are perfect
when they all know they’re not.

My perfect scenario being
universal honesty
about our faults and fears
and vulnerability.

But since everybody else
seem too afraid to do it,
I’ll set an example myself;
just this to get started with:

—

I have a crippling fear of writing.
Say what?
Yes, I do!
Actually, it doesn’t have much to do with writing
but a lot to do with finding the right words to speak my mind
so that others can understand it –
now, that’s a challenge!

And it’s not that I ought to care if I get it wrong
since I don’t know the reader –
but if they were to misunderstand
and comment on it –
now, that’s where the fear comes in
since I don’t have the energy
for arguments
or even just
for civil discussions –
really, I don’t have much energy for talking
at all.

My energy needs to be carefully doled out on
worthy pursuits
rather than wasted on random things.
(Other people could benefit from the same
approach
but lack the benefit of an enlightening diagnosis
to help them on their way) –
I cannot afford to waste energy on people
and their opinions
except those of a very select few individuals
who have proven themselves worthy of my
attention.

So I have a distinct fear of writing.
Because I have little energy for talking
and therefore little experience
in expressing my thoughts.
Because I have no education besides
programming, where you only learn
to communicate with a computer
rather than with people.
Because I have no conception of what other people might think
when they read what I write
and only vague ideas about
what other people think at all.

But perhaps that is predominantly a good thing.
I have no conception of the ridiculous prejudice
I see other people express,
or of ingrained social practices
that are outright meaningless,
or of wasting my time talking to people I don’t know
of things which I have no knowledge of
just to pass my time,
or of passing off my limited knowledge
of anything
as an absolute truth
to anyone –
on the other hand I have a crippling fear
of other people misreading me
as if the latter was the case
and no way of knowing whether or not there is a risk
that they might do so.

Above all I have a crippling fear
of being talked down to
and being talked over
because that’s comprised 90%
of all my social encounters
so far.

And so I write instead of talking
since I don’t have a voice that anybody can hear anyway
and chastise myself all the while
for not standing up, screaming,
even though I know it wouldn’t solve anything at all
if I did.

The things I valued
not so long ago –
the things for which I lived
and the ones I left untold
are all now piled together
into one close-packed rhyme
for all now share in fate:
They’ve fallen out of time.

Those things I used to care for,
and those I used to hate,
are all now out of store;
oblivion their fate.

The school I used to go to
has left the Earth and passed.
The town that I grew up in
is breathing at its last.
The people I once knew
have disappeared from view
and it’s no consolation
to think of all the new.

The things I once believed in
is history today.
The earliest of my paintings
is buried under rubble;
nothing is to stay.

But who cares for my words
and who cares for the truth?
The world we live in now
cares only for success and youth.
To say that nothing lasts,
to say that all’s in vain
is not to be expected
to strike a common strain.

And that is why in silence
within my withering heart
I ponder my antiquities
alone and in the dark.

What others will forget
for me alone remains.
What others want achieve
for me is what’s been had
and cannot be again.

The happiness we find along the way
we’ll lose someday
but the happiness we find within ourselves
will never stray;
it stays to warm our hearts and guide us
right on till the end –
do not believe in buying joys; what warmth they bring will soon be spent –
no, you must find within yourself
the source you have which never wanes,
for that is all you’ll have to guide you
through your sorrows and your pains